


Dim as an Ember

by TheFledglingDM



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Amnesia, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7266271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFledglingDM/pseuds/TheFledglingDM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU with an Anastasia twist that quickly got out of hand.</p>
<p>A town isolated, afraid, destroyed. A family murdered, a daughter traumatized, a son mysteriously missing. A set of twins working to scrape by. A man with no past and no name. All come together to possibly reunite a splintered family and save a city from its horrifying captors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

### Prologue

The sounds of a string quartet filled the air, its dulcet notes keeping a time of _one_ -two-three, _one_ -two-three as couples whirled about the dance floor. The ladies’ skirts flared out to their full volume as they twirled, a sea of red, blue, pink, and purple silks, velvets, furs, and brocades, their jewels glittering in the light of the grand crystal chandelier that lit the ballroom, their wide mixes of perfumes turning the ballroom into a heady mix of flowers and spices. Outside, the sky was clear but dark, and snowflakes fluttered past the window panes.

 

In his place next to his father’s chair, Percival Fredrikstein Von Musel Klossowski de Rolo the Third reached up and loosened the stupid ascot that was just suffocating him. He’d protested hours ago that the thing was too tight, but mother had ignored his pleas and merely simpered how _cute_ he was before fluttering off to ensure that preparations were going smoothly for the de Rolo family’s annual Winter’s Crest ball and for their guests. Now, poor young Percival was trapped in this stuffy ballroom, and he was _so bored._

 

In the middle of the dance floor, their special guests for the evening, a Lord and Lady Briarwood, dressed in splendid blues and silvers, danced together as if there was no one else in the room. The Lord spun his wife in a wide arc, pulled her to him, and pressed his mouth to hers for a brief moment. She giggled and lay her head against his shoulder.

 

Percy looked away, his expression childishly disgusted. And his parents told him that _he_ lacked decorum when he got crumbs all over the front of his blue dinner jacket.

 

“What’s that face for, brother?” said a light female voice. Percy looked up and found his younger sister, Cassandra, flying up the steps, her blue velvet dress tucked in her hands. Despite her best efforts, she tripped over the hemline of her long skirts in her excitable haste; automatically, Percy reached out a hand to steady her. Undeterred, the seven-year-old girl stood upright and gripped Percy’s hand. Unlike her brother, who at nine was too old to be allowed to skip the event and too young to be anything but miserable, Cassandra was in her element, glowing prettily, her long blonde hair braided up into a knot on the top of her head.

 

Percy shrugged awkwardly. “This is not my idea of fun,” he said honestly. “I’d much rather be in father’s workshop, tinkering.”

 

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “Boring! You looked cranky as an old woman! But not for long - I have your Winter’s Crest present!”

 

Percy’s eyes went wide. “Oh, Cassandra, you didn’t -” 

 

Cassandra ignored his feeble protests and stuffed a small box wrapped in silver paper into his hands. Belatedly, he realized she had been holding it in her hand as she’d ascended the stairs. The box was light, the paper wrinkled from Cassandra’s handling; clearly it wasn’t something too fragile. Percy untied the bow and ripped the paper aside, grinning as he heard a mysterious rattle. He tore off the lid and found, to his utter delight, a set goggles similar to the ones that their father used when he worked with metal. The rims of the goggles were made of sturdy bronze, the glass lenses tinted black to protect the eyes from the blazing fire and flying sparks. They were secured on a stretchable string to ensure they were sealed tightly to protect the eyes. 

 

Percy set the box on the chair behind him and jammed the goggles onto his head. The string was much too long, and the goggles fell over his face, knocking his glasses askew and settling down around his neck. Cassandra laughed, clapping her hands together.

 

“I made sure they were big,” She said. “That way you can adjust the string as you get bigger and you can have them for a long time!”

 

Percy smiled. “Thank you, Cass. Here, I have my gift for you right here -”

 

“Later! Come on, stop standing there like one of father’s clocks, let’s dance!” Cassandra interrupted, grabbing Percy’s hand again. Without waiting for his response, she dragged him off the raised dais and to the dance floor. Percy’s elder siblings and parents smiled down at brother and sister as they passed, finally finding a corner of the dance floor that was not too crowded. They were near the refreshments table, where Percy saw a young girl, about his age, dressed in the garb of a kitchen servant. She was holding a large silver tray and was in the act of replacing an empty platter of food with its replacement. As he watched, she stole three mini cupcakes, holding them aloft between her fingers, polishing one off before she made eye contact with the young heir. She sent him a sheepish grin, not appearing apologetic in the least to be caught snatching from the party she was supposed to be serving. Percy shrugged at her and returned his attention to his sister, who was beginning to look impatient.

 

Percy was not much of a dancer; when it came to his lessons, he very much preferred his lessons on engineering, horseback riding, and history rather than the niceties of diplomacy and dancing. Though adept enough with the footwork and keeping the rhythm, Percy had never learned to find any enjoyment in what his mother referred to as an _art._ Sure, it was an art. He’d been to the Emon Ballet and his family was preparing to make its yearly visit to the court of Emon on the morrow (where they were sure to be out in high society quite often), but it was an art form he would rather appreciate from afar. But Cassandra loved it, and Percy would indulge his little sister on this Winter’s Crest evening. She threw back her head and laughed as her brother spun her, her laugh echoing in his ears, her skirts flaring out like a spinning top. Percy grinned, finding enjoyment in the waltz himself -

 

Then the screaming started. 

 

Cassandra tripped on her dress again, stumbling into Percy. Shaken, Percy tucked his sister behind him, looking around. The screams had started in the center of the dance floor, and they were growing louder, with added yells of pain. There were horrible sounds, of hacking, squelching, of his brother’s cry, of his father’s yell, of his mother’s wail, suddenly cut short-

 

People were running now, out of the ballroom, and through a window in the throng, Percy saw Lady Briarwood, her hands aglow with some form of arcane energy, side by side with her husband, as Lord Briarwood tugged a thoroughly bloodied longsword (he had not had that before, Percy thought dizzily, panicked) from Lady de Rolo’s breast. The bodies of Percy and Cassandra’s parents and siblings lay around the two, bleeding out onto the floor, and Lord Silas Briarwood looked up, around, scanning the crowds for something.

 

“Percy,” Cassandra choked, her small hand clutching Percy’s arm like a vise. “Run - _run!”_

 

Movement flooded back into Percy’s numb legs, and he turned and sprinted, pulling Cassandra into the crowd with him. With a thrill of terror, he realized that Silas had been searching for him and his sister, hoping to finish his and his wife’s gruesome work. 

 

The children were small and sober, weaving around the tipsy and terrified guests. Around them, the screaming started again. They had reached the entrance hall, where people were banging at the doors, which, Percy saw, had been magically sealed shut. People began dropping as misty, barely corporeal figures began to drift through the walls, entering the bodies of people and possessing them, turning them against each other as fists and knives began to fly...Percy changed direction, leading Cassandra along another corridor, thinking, pondering. There _had_ to be another way to get out of this castle. As he passed the windows, he saw an odd glow outside; when he turned and looked, he found half of the city ablaze. Cassandra let out a pained, terrified sob over his shoulder. 

 

“Lord Percival! Cassandra!” 

 

Percy skidded to a stop and nearly cried, himself, when he saw the familiar figure of Keeper Yennen, head Cleric in the temple of Erathis in the city running towards them. He had come to the celebration that night at the invitation of Percy’s father to celebrate the recent completion of an orphanage in the city of Whitestone. 

 

_Lord._ He had called Percy _Lord._ He did not want to think about that, did not want to think about the fact that he had a father and two elder brothers between him and that title…

 

Keeper Yennen skidded to a stop next to the children. “I’m so glad to see you safe,” he wheezed. The Keeper was not a young man, and his whitening hair was escaping his ponytail. He turned his wizened eyes to the rest of the hallway. “Terrible, dark things are happening here. We must get you to safety as quickly as possible. The front doors are barred. We have to find another way out.”

 

They ran on. The Keeper led them on, through hallways, rushing to exits to the gardens, to the courtyard. All the doors were barred. Cassandra’s hold on Percy was so tight that he had long since lost feeling in his fingertips. 

 

After a few breathless minutes of searching for an escape route, the trio found themselves in the library. Percy found his gaze locked on a nearby alcove hosting a table spread with papers and diagrams. His brother had left it there after working earlier today, only stopping when he needed to prepare for the ball. 

 

“Where - where?” Keeper Yennen murmured, turning on the spot and looking about them. “There needs to be something - anything -”

 

“Here!” 

 

Percy turned. In the very alcove he had just been staring was the kitchen girl who had served the refreshments table earlier. She had opened up a portion of the wall to reveal a servant’s passage. She waved to them frantically, her brown eyes wide and afraid. The hem of her dress was stained in blood; clearly the death had not been limited to only the ballroom and the elite guests. Percy ran to her immediately, dragging Cassandra behind him. Keeper Yennen followed. 

 

The kitchen girl held a candle aloft in her hand. “Come, hurry!” She said, her voice hushed. She ran down the passageway, the three following. The hall went on quite a ways, the girl always leading downwards. Here, insulated in the thick walls of Castle Whitestone, the sound of screaming had at least momentarily subsided. 

 

She led them out a door, and Percy’s gasping breath hit him in the face as it condensed in the frigid air; she had led them outside a door mere feet from the stables. The kitchen girl ran ahead, yelling, “Vax! I found them!”

 

Percy raced after her into the structure to find a boy the same age as the girl putting the finishing touches on attaching a saddle to a horse. Two steeds stood at attention, slightly skittish at the yells they heard and the smoke in the air. The acrid smell of burning wood and something worse stung Percy’s nose. 

 

“I - what?” He gasped. “What are you-?”

 

The boy looked at him, a frown on his face, his dour expression uncannily similar to the girl’s. “It’s an escape mission,” he said sharply. “Get on.”

 

“But, children,” Keeper Yennen protested, “What about you? You must escape!”

 

The girl shrugged. “Two kids aren’t a threat. But those two are targets.” She nodded to Percy and Cassandra. “Get on, so this is worth it.”  
Percy climbed onto a horse; at his side, Keeper Yennen helped Cassandra climb onto the steed situated himself behind her. Gripping the reins, he looked down into the face of his savior. The girl was his age, perhaps older, her hair thick and dark, braid sitting in front of her left shoulder, her eyes wide and dark.

 

“I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “I will not forget this deed. I will make sure you’re repaid for helping us escape this-”

 

The girl rolled her eyes. “Enough talk, get _out!”_

 

Percy nodded, nudging the horse into motion behind the Keeper. The boy had vanished, but Percy saw that he had simply gone off to open a side servant’s entrance for them. He and Percy made eye contact as the latter rode past, and the two exchanged a nod. 

 

“We must get to the temple!” Keeper Yennen cried. “There is a teleportation portal there - we can escape to Emon that way! Quickly!”

 

He spurred his steed on, the young Lord following close behind him. It was difficult to keep the panic from rising in his chest as Percy saw the smoke rising into the sky, saw monstrous beings or skeletal soldiers beat those who would fight into submission, leaving the bodies to lay in the street. As the three rode past, the undead beings turned their attention to them and began following their gallop the the Temple of Erathis. They rushed inside, leaving the horses in the streets. For once, Percy had not eyes for the lovely stained glass windows or the simple but elegant altar where the Keeper gave his sermons; he hurried with the Keeper and his sister into a side room, where a large, circular rune was carved into the floor. Outside the room, the stained glass windows shattered as the monstrous beings broke into the temple.

 

Magic began to glow in Keeper Yennen’s hands as he traced the arcane runes around them. The carving began to glow, the magic of teleportation making the air crackle and the hairs at the back of Percy’s neck stand on end. He stood beside his sister, shaking, hoping the magic would work in time, he took her hand, gave it a gentle, comforting squeeze as she looked down at her feet, tears slowly rolling down her cheeks. She looked up, opened her mouth as the rune began to glow and the magic prepared to activate. Whatever she was going to say was choked off when her gaze flickered over his shoulder, her eyes went wide, and she shrieked, “Look out!”

 

A hand reached out, grasped at the scruff of Percy’s neck, found purchase on the strap of the goggles that Cassandra had gifted him barely half an hour ago. There was a hard tug and a scream of _“Percy!”_

 

The young Lord stumbled back from the pressure, tumbling down the stairs as the magic of the rune flashed as Keeper Yennen and his sister vanished, landing head-first with a sickening _crack._

 

Thinking him deceased, the undead skeleton shuffled off, proud to have done its masters’ bidding. Lord Percival Fredrikstein Von Musel Klossowski the Third lay alone on the steps in the temple of Erathis, one lens of his goggles cracked, his sister’s Winter’s Crest gift still wrapped in his pocket.


	2. Rumors Abound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be a small amount of naming confusion that will ideally be cleared up in the next chapter or so. I appreciate the patience, thanks!

### Rumors Abound

Icy wind whistled through the air, biting right through the young woman’s scarf to nip at her nose and cheeks. The tips of her ears had long since frozen, and her fingers were white with chill as she tucked them into the pockets of her enormous threadbare coat. At the gate, she looked around, examining her surroundings: the street was blanketed in a fresh cover of snow, which glittered under the single sputtering streetlight down at the far end of the street. Vex knew that no one was going to be there, of course. Very, very few people in Whitestone braved going outside past dark anymore. Not for a very long time.

 

With a final glance around, Vex stepped through a gap in the gate and hurried into the large, abandoned Whitestone Castle. 

 

Stepping through the door to the old kitchens, she stomped the snow off of her feet and removed her scarf and hat, letting her long hair loose, her braid tumbling over her left shoulder and halfway down her chest. With practiced footsteps, she walked through the castle, avoiding those places she knew to still be...damaged...from the events nearly fifteen years ago. Even now, there was a slightly haunted feeling to the castle’s long hallways, for years too empty, too quiet, too cold. 

 

While Vex had no scruples breaking into a house nobody lived in, she couldn’t quite bring herself to make her new abode out of the de Rolo family’s old quarters. That felt just a bit too...intrusive. Hence she and her brother, Vax, had remained in the servant’s living area, high up in a tower that let them see the mountains and forest around them for miles, an entrancing sight made all the better for its strategic view of the surroundings - just in case the Briarwoods ever returned to reclaim the castle they had so wretchedly stolen.

 

But it was no matter right now. Vex had other things to worry about than a pair of homicidal, otherworldly beings that had slaughtered almost an entire family, taken a small city hostage, and then disappeared. 

 

There was a light shining through the cracks in a door, and Vex opened it, entering a room that was small but cozy, a fire burning in the grate. The castle was too large to justify turning the power back on, as Vex and her brother were the only two to (illegally) live here, and frankly, they lacked the engineering knowledge or skill to know how to run it at all. 

 

In a handsome, cushy armchair lounged her twin brother, Vax’ildan, reading a book he had swiped from the old de Rolo library. He glanced up at her as she wandered in, removing her boots. 

 

“How goes the honest day’s work, dear sister?” Vax asked, his baritone voice teasing. Vex shot him a glare; she hadn’t truly done an honest day’s work in a very long time. With the city of Whitestone on a permanent lockdown, people seeking to escape had to do so through illicit means. That was where the twins came in, exchanging directions, supplies, and sometimes accompanying groups to the nearest city for gold. As the mountains and forests extended for many miles and those areas were fraught with dangers in the forms of various beasts, this type of work was hard to come by. Many a time the twins had to steal their food for the day when their meager supply of funds ran dry.

 

“It was perfectly useless, and you know it,” she huffed. “Though I did manage to catch wind of some recent news.”

 

“And what,” Vax asked, placing a bookmark in his book and turning his attention to her, “Would that be?”

 

Vex threw herself into an armchair across from him. “Cassandra de Rolo has started a nationwide hunt to track down Percival de Rolo.”

 

His eyebrow quirked high as he stared uncomprehendingly at her. “What is this garbage, sister?”

 

Vex shrugged. “A messenger came in recently - meaning Scanlan is back in town, Gods help us - and he said that the de Rolo girl is in Emon and has finally spoken out, now she’s come of age. She’s seeking her brother. Seems to think he’s still alive.”

 

Vax rolled his eyes. “The rumor mill has been fraught with such tales for years. Always some new sighting of one or another of the de Rolo siblings. Besides, Scanlan has a reputation for tall tales and stretching the truth for entertainment’s sake. _We’re_ the only ones who know that two of them at least got out that night, and it’s more than likely the brother was felled by one of the undead monstrosities that haunt this city.”

 

Vex paused. “Well, we can’t be sure of that. But what we can be sure of is that _she_ seems to believe it, and she’s offering a reward of ten million gold for his safe return.”

 

Vax’s eyes bugged, nearly falling out of his head as he took in the astronomical figure. “Ten - _million_ \- Gods, if she had that kind of money, wouldn’t she have started looking sooner?”

 

“She wasn’t of age, recall?” Vex reminded him. “She hadn’t access to her own funds, because that’s the place of women in high society. They’re supposed to marry for their riches, not wait to come into them and then spend as they please.”

 

Vax thought for a long minute. “I’m guessing,” he said slowly, “that you have some sort of hare-brained scheme to involve us in this nonsense.”

 

“I do, in fact,” Vex said with dignity. “I propose we find him.”

 

Vax laughed out loud. “Vex, sister, I would agree with this plan, only I must remind you that the man in question has been dead these fourteen years.”

 

“Is there proof of that?” Vex asked seriously. “Has anyone ever come forward and offered proof that the third child died that night? You remember the - the bodies.” Her voice failed her momentarily. “They pulled out the de Rolos one by one, hung them on the Sun Tree. They paraded their victory. And the boy was not part of them. He was never discovered.”

 

Vax was unconvinced. “People do not disappear, sister. Yes, he escaped. But he did not make it to Emon. Where do you suppose he is, then? Hiding in the mountains?”

 

Vex glanced out the window, watching the snow as it swirled past their window and blurred the landscape. “I don’t know.”

 

**~**

 

The wrench let loose with a loud _clunk!_ The tool shuddered in his hand, and he lost his grip on it, the heavy tool falling to land squarely on his foot. He let out a loud curse, stopping his work and tucking his leg to himself, somehow remaining standing by keeping a hold on the heating system to his side. 

 

“Jarrett?” A soft, feminine voice came from the stairwell. “Jarrett, are you alright?”

 

The young man turned, still bouncing on one foot, to find the kindly face of Anika Wiedenfeld, the head matron of the Orphanage for the Children of Erathis, standing in the doorway. 

 

The young man sheepishly put down his foot, embarrassed to have shouted vulgarities in the middle of a home for children. Hastily he removed his leather gloves and tugged his work goggles - the left lens cracked for as long as he’d owned them - and put on his brass-rimmed glasses, bringing the room into sharper focus. 

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “Just a scratch. The heater is being ornery today.”

 

Anika let out a long sigh, and Jarrett saw that the woman, slim and in her fifties, was wrapped in a thick woolen shawl. The heater in the building had broken for the third time that week, and while Jarrett was certainly a bit chilly in the basement, he at least had the heat of his work forge (where he took scrap metal and reshaped pieces to fix the constant odd repairs that the home needed). Upstairs, he was sure that the orphanage’s fifty or so residents were shivering as they went about their lessons or played.

 

“Well,” she carried on, “Thank you for coming in today. I have a few pieces of gold…” she made to reach for her purse, but Jarrett stepped forward, reaching out a hand and gently pausing her hand.

 

“Anika,” he said, “You took me in when I had nowhere to go and no idea who I was. I could never ask you to pay me.”

 

Anika frowned, two lines appearing between her tired brown eyes. “I took you in because it was the right thing to do. And now that you’re an adult, I must continue to look after you by making sure you earn a living for yourself.” She settled her gaze on him with a glare that Percy remembered from his young days in the orphanage when she would catch him late at night trying to stoke the forge and finish some little project or another. She removed a few pieces of gold from her purse and set them into Jarrett's hand, curling his fingers over the coins. Jarrett sighed, accepting again this elderly woman’s kindness.

 

“I don’t exactly have much to spend it on,” he teased.

 

Anika rolled her eyes, turning round to go up the stairs. Over her shoulder she called, “Build yourself another few trinkets, dear.”

 

Jarrett chuckled to himself as he turned his attention back to the machine. It had been a long time since he had built anything other than a new set of glasses for himself. 

 

It had been nearly fifteen years since Jarrett was brought to the orphanage, unconscious and alone after being discovered at the foot of a strange set of rune markings in a side room of Whitestone’s temple to Erathis. When he awoke, they discovered that he had no idea who he was, where he was, or how he had gotten there. He didn’t even know his name. All he had was a nice coat he wore to the city’s Winter’s Crest festival, a cracked set of brass goggles, and a silver hair comb wrapped in blue paper.

 

They assumed that the young boy’s family had died in the purge following the Briarwood’s takeover of the castle, and Anika took him in. It was she who had given Jarrett his new name, the name she would have given her son had not her husband been killed that night, as we, before the young couple could start their own family. And so for the next twelve years, Jarrett had been raised with the rest of the children in the orphanage, despite the invisible rift that existed between them. Jarrett always stood just a little apart, a little aloof, partially the result of his oddly formal manners, his excellent education, his affinity for tinkering with metals and machinery, and his dark brown hair that, over the years of increasingly hard life in the orphanage, had turned to a bright, snowy white. 

 

One thing Jarrett had remembered was his birthday, so on his twenty-first he was turned free to begin his life on his own. He had remained very close to the orphanage, taking lodging in a building that had once been an inn - what with the lockdown on the city, no one being allowed to enter or leave Whitestone, the owners has taken to finding their gold other ways. There were no kitchens in the rooms, leading to the “inn’s” inhabitants to rely on the owners for their meals (really a rather clever plan, Jarrett thought); but the rooms were decent, the rent was cheap, and really, where else was he going to go? 

 

For the past two years, he had worked as a jack-of-all trades for the town, using the forge in the back of an old smith’s shop to fix odd repairs and make little metal bits to help people keep their homes warm and their fields tended. Supplies were often scarce, as was just about everything in this town, but it was a life. Not particularly a fun one, and rather a lonely one, but Whitestone was home. The townspeople were...well, not quite his family; the town was still a little too large for the introverted Jarrett to ever feel like he knew every face, and he knew a seedy underworld existed, pawning off pieces that were stolen from the long-abandoned homes of the noble families. It was a crowd he did his best to steer clear of. 

 

With a sudden sound of gears clinking into place and a pleasing _whir_ sound, the heater hummed to life. Jarrett grinned, leaning back on his heels from here he’d crouched back under the machine to finish his work. He wiped the grease on his pants and gave the machine a once-over as lovely heat began to fill the room, the thin layer of ice that had encased the pipes beginning to melt. 

 

His honest day’s work done, Jarrett packed up his tools and made his way back up the stairs. He found Anika sitting in a main playroom, patching up some tears in some socks as assorted children played and read around her. She heard his steel-toed footsteps on the old wooden floors and looked up, a tired but genuinely happy smile on her face. 

 

“Heater should be all fixed,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing it gently. “Just a bit of a mess with some old rusted gears, it was a quick replacement. You and the children should be warm now.”

 

“Yes, we heard the machine turn back on.” She said, smiling. “You ought to head home, it’s getting towards sunset.”

 

Jarrett looked outside. The sky was growing dark and cloudy as snow rolled in from the nearby mountains, and he nodded his understanding. He had no desire to remain outside past dark, what with the undead, skeletal army that prowled about, keeping the people in line and in town. 

 

“Very true,” he said. “Well, have a good night - stay safe - and let me know if you need any more repairs at the very low price of free.”

 

“Not a chance,” Anika replied. “But goodnight, dear.”

 

Jarrett nodded, waved a general goodbye to all the children, and left the home. Unshoveled snow went halfway up his calves, and he pulled up the collar of his navy jacket in an attempt to ward off the flurries that blew into his face with the wind. The walk from the Children of Erathis Orphanage to the inn was only about ten minutes, but Jarrett kept his gaze up, eyes always scanning for any sign of threat, be it from a soldier of the Briarwoods or from some unsavory, desperate figure.

 

The inn was situated just off of the large plaza that once housed the market of Whitestone; now, it was empty, almost all of the shops boarded up and abandoned. When Percy’s eyes swept the square, his eyes saw the reason why so many had relocated to other places in the city. In the middle of the large open space was a tree, its branches drooping low with the lethargy of a sick or dying plant, its leaves long since gone. From one branch, a figure dangled, too still, its head tilted oddly to one side.

 

Jarret averted his gaze and quickened his pace. No one wanted to be alone at night with a dead body.

 

The inn, when Jarrett entered, was mercifully warm and bright, its clientele sitting at various tables around the room as they talked, drank, ate, and smoked together. The chatter provided a soothing background noise as Jarret found a seat at the bar and ordered dinner. 

 

He made it halfway through his meal before he was interrupted by a voice at his elbow “Jarrett! _So_ good to see you! Have you heard the news?”

 

Jarrett jumped, looking about wildly before his gaze came to a stop at an incredibly short man, who was deftly climbing onto the seat beside him without so much as asking if he could join. Once more comfortably settled, the little man adjusted his fine chestnut hair, his clever, light brown eyes peering up at Jarrett with mischievous cleverness. “Well?”

 

“Scanlan,” Jarrett said, much more of a statement of the man’s existence than any sort of greeting. In answer to his question, he replied, “You know I try to avoid the town’s paltry gossip.”

 

“Psh. Your life is as boring and bland as your hair,” Scanlan insisted. Before Jarrett could reply to this odd insult, he carried on, “There is news - don’t ask my sources -” (here, Jarrett interjected with “I never do, seeing as I never believe your news”) “but the de Rolo heiress is looking for her lost brother!”

 

Jarrett stared at him, finishing his mouthful of food. Their conversations usually followed this path: the man would appear from seemingly nowhere, chatter with him (Scanlan had an amazing ability to remember faces and names), and then vanish for another few months. Jarrett suspected him of having ties to the underworld in the city, but so long as Scanlan never tried to pull him into it, he let him ramble on. It made the meals a little less solitary. Finally, he said, “I was under the impression that the rest of the children were dead.”

 

“Aha! That’s the thought!” Scanlan insisted. “But apparently the young girl made it out with a brother. The third, likely, seeing as his body was never discovered, but he never made it to Emon with her.”

 

“Yet she insists he’s alive?” Jarrett raised an eyebrow. “There are things she’s not telling your sources, then. Your stories are usually much better than this.”

 

Scanlan looked insulted. “My stories are excellent and well-researched, thank you.”

 

“I do believe you make them up,” Jarrett said. “Where else do you get these ideas? What news can you have gotten from the outside world when no one is allowed to enter or leave?”

 

Scanlan shook his head mournfully. “My poor, sheltered flower, you know so little.” He leaned in, peeking around to ensure they were not being eavesdropped upon. Satisfied, he carried on, “There are those of us in this town who excel in getting things _in_ and _out._ Our gossip is sometimes off, a little far behind the times, but never without basis. And for those families that vanish without a trace, whose bodies are never discovered or paraded...they have help.”

 

Jarrett leaned away. “I’ve no desire to be involved with your dangerous underworld, Scanlan. And why are you telling me this, anyway?”

 

“Because I enjoy gossip, and I consider it my job to get the news out to all the townspeople, as well as sing them little ditties to raise their spirits.” Scanlan laughed. Seeing Jarrett’s unamused face, he added, much more seriously, “And because I have a theory, and one that others share with me.”

 

“Oh?” Jarrett asked, humoring him. “And what is that?”

 

“I think Percival de Rolo is still alive.”

 

Jarrett waved a hand to the rest of the inn’s occupants. “And hiding where? Why would he not have stepped forward by now? And who else shares this crackpot theory?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Scanlan admitted. “There are too many things that don’t add up, I know, but all we do know is that his body was never found, and that the de Rolo girl insists he got out. And I don’t think we can just discount her story out of hand. She has her own reasons for wanting to stay vague; the Briarwoods are still out there.” He slid off of his stool, preparing to take his leave. “And if you’d really like to know who else agrees with me, you’ll find your answers in the castle.”

 

Jarrett blinked. “The old de Rolo estate? I thought that was closed off.”

 

Scanlan gave him a sly grin. “Exactly.”

 

He flounced off to join another group sitting in a corner. In half a minute he had drawn his flute and was playing with them. Jarrett shrugged, pushing his plate away, and made his way upstairs to his room. He found he was quite tired; it had been a long day, and he reeked of grease and the odd smell that the arcane magical heater left on his clothes. He washed himself off and changed into new clothes, taking up a nearby sketchbook of ideas and designs he would make if ever given the opportunity, and thinking…

 

Scanlan was a bit ridiculous, Jarrett reminded himself time and again. He liked a good story, and with his connections to the more dangerous people in Whitestone, he was not to be immediately trusted. But his newest story was an odd one, one that hit Jarrett just a little too close to the chest. Too many things did not add up...yet, too many _did._

 

Jarrett had no recollection of his life before that Winter’s Crest night when the nobility, magic-wielders, and anyone who fought back were killed in a single night. And given that no family has ever come for him, and he had been dressed in unusual finery, it was assumed that he had been _some_ member of a noble family. He could neither confirm nor deny that he was anyone special, and he experienced no delusions of grandeur. The idea of him being...a _Lord_...was laughable.

 

But that does not change the fact that somewhere out there, there was a young woman who was missing her brother. And, judging by the fine silver comb that Jarrett had found in his pocket, he'd had at least had some female family member to whom it was intended. It was not proof that he could have once had a sister. But nor was it an outright disqualifier.

 

_You’ll find your answers in the castle,_ Scanlan had said. Questions about who he was and where he had once come from had abounded in Jarrett’s head for years. Now that someone, however questionably truthful, had promised answers, he wasn’t sure he could resist their allure.

 

Before he could lose his nerve Jarrett leapt from his bed, seized his gloves, and threw his jacket over his shoulders as he walked briskly into the night.


	3. The Portrait

Castle Whitestone was really not a creative name, Jarrett thought as he approached. The stones were certainly white, making the abandoned fortress look vaguely haunted as it let off a glittering glow. The iron front gates were shut with a rusted old lock and chain that clearly hadn’t been disturbed for years. If there really were inhabitants in the castle (and Jarrett was increasingly sure that Scanlan had just been pulling his leg), they went in through a different way.

 

He turned to his left and followed the iron gate, not really thinking why that might have been a better direction to go. After a few minutes he found a gap in the iron fence, and through it, he saw the slight indents of footsteps that had nearly been buried in the snow. 

 

Well. Perhaps Scanlan _was_ telling the truth.

 

He stepped through, following the footsteps to a door. When he gingerly turned the knob, it turned with a slight creak and opened inside. Jarrett crossed over the threshold to find himself in a kitchen, its pots and pans mostly rusted, some still overturned. The stale smell of decay filled the air, making Jarrett wrinkle his nose.

 

There was another door opposite him; blindly, Jarrett wandered to it, following the hallway for quite a ways. He was in a main corridor, with large windows with stunning views of the mountains on one side of him, portraits of the old de Rolo family to his other side. Feeling like an intruder, Jarrett carried on. 

 

It was frigid, he noticed; frost covered the corners of all the windows, distorting views to the outside. There had to have been some sort of heating implement, and yet it was long since turned off. He wondered at the contraption that had once kept this large, beautiful building running, and resolved to seek out the cold, dead heart of this castle.

 

He had never been here before, had no idea where he was going. Yet it was felt very intuitive to make his way to the first floor, take a right down a side hallway, find a door that descended into darkness. Keeping his hand on the wall, he walked slowly (confidently?) down the stairs, following a long spiral. Finally, in pitch darkness, he felt the floor level out, and yet his hand traced the wall, searching, searching…

 

There was a flip on the wall. Jarrett switched it on, and a small arcane fire flickered to life in a gaslamp. It lit the room with a soft, warm glow, shining light onto an old forge, a desk with various metal instruments laying across it (he itched to look at them, but he held his distance, not wanting to immediately rifle through a dead man’s things), and an enormous metal contraption that Jarrett recognized as an arcane heat generator. He approached, running his fingers over the metal, looking at the dials, the knobs, reading the numbers, calculating, thinking…

 

Casually, without really thinking about it, Jarrett flipped a switch to _On._

 

There was a loud screeching sound as cold gears, unused and ungreased for fifteen years, suddenly tried to spring to life. But it proved to be too much as the screeching grew louder, reaching a peak as the generator tried to push heat and frozen water through frozen pipes all at once; there was a popping noise as a few knobs came free from the machine, and dimly, Jarrett heard the sound of pipes popping all over the castle. Anxiously, Jarrett flipped the switch back to its _Off_ position, and he rushed from the room.

 

~

 

Vex froze. The floor had momentarily shuddered, and there was a worrying screeching sound that echoed from the walls all around her. For a terrifying moment she thought of ghosts and demons in this haunted castle; then, her mind turning back on, she realized that someone had just turned the generators on. 

 

She and Vax made eye contact. _Someone had turned the generators on._

 

She seized her bow, and Vax took a hold of his knives as the two leapt from their chairs and rushed outside. They knew the building very well, and at a hallway, they split up, each going their separate way to explore the rest of the castle. Vex found a railing and slid down it, approaching the entrance hall. Movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention; she stopped at the top of the stairs as a pale figure ran past her, and in one swift motion, she knocked an arrow and let it fly. It thudded into a portrait mere inches in front of their face, and the figure let out a loud cry. They attempted to skid to a stop, but they slipped in their still-wet boots and went crashing to the floor. 

 

Vex was unfazed as the intruder let out a yelp and a loud vulgarity. She set another arrow into the bowstring. “I missed on purpose,” she told him coldly. 

 

“You - what?” The man slowly stood up, rubbing his bruised tailbone. “What the fuck was that for?”

 

Vex frowned at him. He was young, perhaps a year or two younger than she and Vax. “You broke into my home. I have every right to protect myself.”

 

The man had the nerve to raise an eyebrow. “Your home that you yourself live in illegally. Yes, I’m truly a heinous trespasser.”

 

Vex nearly shot him again, but she resisted the urge. “Vax!” She called loudly, her voice echoing in the empty halls. “I’ve found our uninvited guest.”

 

“I heard, sister.” The voice came from down the hall as Vax slinked through the shadows; there was a glint of moonlight on steel as he returned his daggers to an inside pocket of his jacket. The intruder saw this and swallowed nervously, a motion the twins saw and ignored. Vax focused his attention on Vex, dryly telling her, “I do believe half the village heard that yell.”

 

“Oh, shut up,” Vex mumbled. She never took her eyes from the intruder as she stepped slowly down the stairs. “Who are you?”

 

“Jarrett,” The stranger said. To his credit, now that he was standing upright, he did not balk at the arrow she kept ready to fly. He looked at the portrait next to him, poking at the arrow embedded in the canvas. It barely moved. “I do believe you just destroyed a twenty-year-old portrait. Excellent shot, though.”

 

“Jarrett?” Vax said, raising an eyebrow at him. “No family name? No trade?”

 

Jarrett’s head perked up sharply. “I am a blacksmith, thank you, and a damn good one.”

 

“Still no family name, however,” Vex reminded him. 

 

At that, this stranger paused. For the first time genuine hesitation appeared in his expression. “I...have no family name. Or, more accurately, I do not recall it.”

 

“Recall? You simply forgot one day?” Vax asked, more surprised than actually disbelieving as his eyebrows shot up and he exchanged a look with his sister. 

 

“In a manner of speaking.” Jarrett answered shiftily. “By the by, you have neglected to tell me your names in turn. Unless I’m about to be taken captive, in which case I suppose I’m not to know.”

 

_What a little shit,_ Vex thought, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please, there’s no need for that.” This man was not a threat; if he were, they’d have stopped talking long ago. She replaced her arrow in its quiver and shouldered her bow. “I am Vex’ahlia, and this is my brother, Vax’ildan.”

 

“But we go by Vax and Vex,” Vax added, going to stand next to his sister. The suspicion in his eyes was gone, and now he considered Jarrett with much more consideration and curiosity. “Pardon the question, but what exactly do you mean when you say you simply forgot who you were one day?”

 

Jarrett shrugged. “Just that. I was discovered by myself on a stone floor and taken to the orphanage in the city. No recollection of who I was, who my family was, or how I had gotten there.”

 

“When was this, Jarrett?” Vax asked. 

 

Vex knew the answer before Jarrett even opened his mouth. “The day after the Winter’s Crest Festival, fourteen years ago.”

 

A chill went down her spine. This new rumor that the de Rolo girl was searching for her brother had brought all kinds of questions to her and her brother’s minds. She’d spent half the night turning over the facts: the girl was gone. The boy was assumed dead, but his body was never discovered. The girl insisted he was alive, but nine-year-old children do not simply vanish. 

 

But if something were to happen that made even _he_ forget who he was…

 

“Where have you been all these years, Jarrett?” She asked. 

 

The man shrugged. “Where are the children who have no families go. I grew up in the orphanage.”

 

Yes, of course he did, Vex thought. With no memory and no family to protect him, he would have been brought to the only safe place for him at the time. He would have grown up a normal boy, only one who could not remember his past at all. 

 

With a flash of sympathy, she realized that Jarrett was probably not even his real name. 

 

Vex stepped forward, studying his face, trying to see if he had any resemblance to the boy she had helped rescue that night. At the time, she hadn’t thought to study him, but now...he cut a tall and slim figure, and he held himself with more than the usual grace and poise of a mere blacksmith orphan boy. His hair was thick and white - well, the de Rolo men _did_ all go white in old age, though Jarrett was a bit young for that - but, interestingly, his eyebrows were still the dark brown that the young de Rolos shared. His eyes behind those brass-rimmed glasses were a dark, stormy blue. 

 

Taken aback by her scrutiny, Jarrett took a step back, looking quite uncomfortable under her gaze. He met her eyes for a second, his mouth opening to speak, but then he paused. For a moment, a flicker of something like recognition made him tilt his head, eyes narrowing as he examined her in return - 

 

“As grand as this sudden tension is,” Vax’s voice cut in suddenly, sounding amused, “You _do_ realize you’re standing literally _right under_ a portrait of the de Rolo family, yes?”

 

Vex shot her brother a glare and Jarrett stumbled back, blushing a bright red. Vax hid a grin under his hand and pointed to the large oil canvas that Vex had torn with an arrow. It had sheared through the face of one of the young children (a very unfortunate coincidence), but the rest of it was untouched. It was a formal portrait made for the birth Cassandra de Rolo, and the infant child was in the middle, held in her mother’s arms. But Vex’s attention was centered on the figure of the old Lord de Rolo in the middle, one hand on his wife’s shoulder, looking down at his newborn daughter. Vex wondered if the artist had imagined the intense expression of admiration for his wife and daughter on the late lord’s face, or if that really had been the way Lord de Rolo had looked at his family. She wondered if her father had ever looked at her and Vax that way, too. 

 

Beside her, Jarrett let out a soft breath. He sounded both sad and resigned.

 

Vex shook her head to return her thoughts to their proper order. Personal affairs needed to stay out of business.

 

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at the well-made portrait, focus flicking back and forth between the image and the man beside her. The build was correct, all long and lanky limbs, slim shoulders filling out their well-made and worn hand-me-down jackets (respectively). The elder de Rolo had wisps of white in his hair. Their faces were eerily similar, with the same hooked nose and pointed chin. 

 

Well, they certainly _looked_ similar enough. But similarity was not proof. Vex turned to speak to Jarrett again, ask him if he remembered something, anything, but her voice stopped in her throat. 

 

Ever since her brother’s jibe about sharing a moment with his sister, Jarrett had been fiddling...well, with everything, not knowing what to do with his nervous hands. He reached up to adjust his collar, and in the moonlight she caught a glimpse of steel at his neckline.

 

“What’s that?” She demanded sharply. “There, around your neck.”

 

Jarrett jumped. “I...well, these are my work goggles. I wear them when I do my smithing. Why?”

 

Vax stepped closer, also peering at the goggles, but not making the connection. After all, he had not stared the young lord in the face when he made his escape that night, watching the moonlight and the faint glow of fire from the city catch on his glasses and…

 

“Longer than I can remember. I was found with them on. I never go anywhere without them.”

 

...His sister’s Winter’s Crest gift.

 

“Vax,” She said, her voice strange. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

 

Her brother stared at her for a long moment as a wordless communication passed between them. He had never spoken to the young Lord that night, but he trusted his sister’s instincts. He nodded to her once in a short, jerky movement, like a raven adjusting itself.

 

“What?” Jarrett asked, looking from one twin to the other. “What is it you’re thinking?”

 

“I’m thinking,” Vax said, leaning one shoulder against the wall as he crossed his arms over his chest and considered him, “That I really didn’t picture you as a _Jarrett.”_

 

The white-haired man paled as he understood the other man's meaning. “I - you’re insane - you can’t be serious - “

 

“Oh, but we are, darling,” Vex said. He turned, and for a moment Vex experienced a sense of deja vu as he gaped down at her, panic growing, she looking back at him with quiet surety and resolve. “Welcome home, Percival.”


	4. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on updating, all! Four days straight of D&D left me rather drained, but that was an excellent week.

He frantically looked back and forth between the beautiful madwoman and her brother, searching for a hint of anything, of laughter, of derision, of a sign that they were about to break character and tell him that they were joking, because of course it was impossible Jarrett Nobody could ever be a lost nobleman. 

 

They continued to stare at him with those identical somber stares, not backing down. It was terrifying to meet two people who had more certainty in his identity in that minute than he’d had in his entire life. 

 

“This is insanity,” He said, stepping away from them. His back hit the canvas of the de Rolo (his?) family portrait. “You can’t be serious.”

 

The brother shrugged. “Have you a better explanation?”

 

His head spun and a terrible certainty began to settle down on his shoulders. Still he protested, “There has to be another explanation. One more rational than this madness.”

 

“Like what?” The woman responded. “The boy has been missing for years. You, sir, conveniently do not recall who you were before the Winter’s Crest evening that he disappeared. You look just like the late Lord. You apparently have enough knowledge of engineering and unconscious memory to wander in here, find the generators no one has touched for years, and turn them on. You’re wearing the same goggles he wore when he escaped that night. I _saw_ you wearing them. _You are Percival de Rolo.”_

 

He reached up and ran a hand through his blanched hair. There was another reason this had to be the truth, though he was not sure how best to express it. The woman in front of him was maddeningly familiar, like a childhood friend with whom he had fallen out of touch only to bump into on the street. He could not place meeting her, but he knew the shape of those dark brown eyes, the curls of the hair that escaped her braid. He could not help trusting the confidence in her eyes, especially when it answered all his anxieties. 

 

He swallowed. “Percival sounds a little...formal. Not like something I’d call myself.”

 

Vex’ahlia tilted her head and her the corner of her lips quirked up in a wry smile. “May I call you Percy?”

 

He thought for a moment, then Percy nodded slowly. 

 

“Excellent,” Vax said. “Sister, when you suggested we find the man, I didn’t think it would be so soon. Or so simple that he would just wander in.”

 

“Glad to be of service,” Percy quipped. “I’m...still not entirely convinced of this. Perhaps this is all just a very strange dream.”

 

Vax shrugged. “A fair response. I’m sure we sent you through a minor existential crisis.”

 

“I’ll be fine.” Percy adjusted his jacket. “So. What now?”

 

Vex turned and went to walk down the hallway. “We begin preparations.”

 

Vax followed her, and belatedly, Percy hurried after them as they wound their way up the stairs. “Preparations for what, exactly?”

 

“For the trip to Emon, of course,” Vex said calmly. 

 

Percy blinked. “The trip to - what? How? Why?”

 

Vex continued on, never breaking her businesslike stride. “The trip though the mountains to Emon to reunite you with your sister. It’s not an easy journey, we’ll need a day or two to muster up supplies - can you fight at all, by the way? There are certain unsavory sorts in the mountains and it helps to be able to watch your own back.”

 

Percy gaped at her. Scanlan had mentioned that there were those who moved people and things in and out of the city. Here they were, apparently. He recalled Vex’s uncanny aim with her bow and the power with which she shot those arrows. Vax had snuck along the hall with the grace of a man practiced in his craft. It was clear that these were the people Scanlan meant to refer him to.

 

“I’m not quite the fighter type,” Percy admitted. 

 

Vex let out a long sigh that Percy found somewhat condescending. “Well, that’s alright. We can wait until Scanlan is ready to head out again. It’ll be a few extra days, but that’s nothing.”

 

“I can teach you a thing or two about blades, if you’d like,” Vax offered. “So you’re not helpless if anything happens.”

 

Somehow that offer of help was worse. “I’ll find a way,” Percy said, his tone a bit stiffer than it was previously. The twins left him alone and showed him the way to a cool room that had long ago belonged to a servant of the de Rolo’s ( _my family,_ Percy corrected himself). 

 

“You can sleep here,” Vex said, oddly the hostess in Percy’s former home. “I suppose you could go find your old quarters, but I wasn’t sure if you’d want to be thrown back into all of that at once. I know tonight has been a shock of revelations.”

 

How considerate. Percy felt his cool distance thaw slightly. “I thank you. I shall see you in the morning.”

 

He entered the servant’s room. It was small, but cozy, a small fireplace set in a wall a safe distance from a bed that, after all these years, was still made and untouched. He wondered what had happened to the previous occupant; the sheets were still on the bed, but when he looked, the chest of drawers was empty. Whoever had lived here, they may have survived the night to collect their things and leave. 

 

He stoked a fire and sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the embers with his chin propped on his hands thoughtfully. 

 

So. He had answers. The process had been much easier than he’d expected it to be; when he glanced at his watch, he found barely an hour and a half had elapsed since his decision to break into the castle. So much had happened his head spun.

 

He was a Lord. Dear gods, he was a nobleman. He was an orphan because the infamous Briarwoods had killed his family. His sister ( _he had a sister, the comb was to be hers, his sister, he did have a family somewhere out there_ ) was somewhere in Emon, looking for him at last. She had never given up on him. A surge affection for this almost phantasmal figure swelled in him. 

 

Mystery still abounded - the Briarwoods attempted to kill his family, but for what purpose? No one had seen a hint of them for years. They appeared out of nowhere, joined the de Rolos for a night, and slaughtered them all with no warning. Their undead army brought to life with old, evil arcane arts kept the city in check, likely to ensure that no one escaped and told the world what had happened here. Even if he knew who he was now, there was still a mystery to be solved. One that connected deeply with his family. 

 

He let out a long sigh. He could try and sleep, but his mind was spinning too quickly. His hands were fidgety and jumpy in a way they hadn’t been in a very long time. If he wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, he might as well make something. 

 

There had been strange instruments on the table in the old workshop, as well as a forge that appeared to be in good condition after all these years. Percy stood, discarded his overcoat, and made his way downstairs.

 

The castle was eerie at night; the corridors were still and cold, the portraits’ eyes following him as he made his way along these hallowed halls. He felt their judgement as the long-lost heir returned at last to disappoint them all. 

 

Percy shook his head sharply. He had arrived two hours ago. He couldn’t possibly begin to think about how much of a family failure he would be when he had just figured out that he may be part of the family at all. 

 

The light was still on in the basement when Percy arrived; in his panic to escape the grinding machinery, he had forgotten to turn off the switch. The small arcane flame had provided the room with some warmth, and Percy added to that when he stoked a fire in the forge. It was slightly rusted after so long, but in its heyday it was clear that this had been very well-tended. 

 

As the flames grew, Percy turned his attention to the workbench. There were various instruments that he was very familiar with, but there were oddly-shaped metal parts on the table: a series of short, round tubes, a handle of sorts, finely carved in a dark wood that fit very nicely in the palm of his hand, and a chamber that had a small attachment that looked like a means of striking a match. It was all bizarre, yet like everything else in the castle, it was strangely familiar and intuitive to put the pieces in some semblance of order. 

 

As he moved pieces around, Percy uncovered some old, yellowed papers that his practiced eye immediately recognized as blueprints. He skimmed the pages, his grin slowly spreading over his face. This...this will do nicely. A modification here for aim, some tampering _there_ for aerodynamics…

 

Percy gently set his glasses on a nearby bench, out of the way of flying sparks, and strapped on his goggles to work.

 

~

 

Percy wasn’t in his room when Vex went to knock on the door and offer him breakfast. She could not blame him; she and Vax had dumped a lot of information at once, and she would have wanted some time to herself, too. Wasn’t it what she did, when her father didn’t want her and her mother died, leaving her and her brother alone in the world? She had run to the woods, learned to hunt, to track, to sneak and hide and shoot. When she lost her home, she decided to make a new one.

 

Which was why she wasn’t surprised when she descended the steps to the basement to find him working at his father’s forge. His hair was ruffled and grayed from running his soot and black powder-stained hands through it, and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. His mouth was pursed in a severe line of concentration as he hammered at something very small. 

 

She knocked on the door, making him jump as his focus broke. He looked around the room at a loss before he saw her. “Oh. Vex. Sorry, did I somehow wake you up?”

 

Vex laughed. “Not quite. You do know it’s mid-morning, right? I thought I’d bring you food.”

 

Percy removed his goggles and tucked them on top of his head, making his hair stick up even more. “I did not know. Thank you for the consideration.”

 

He removed his gloves (revealing rather muscular forearms, Vex admired before she reminded herself that she did not mix business and personal affairs, and this was very much a matter a business) and took the plate of food from her. As he wolfed down his sandwich, he asked, “How did you find me?”

 

Vex shrugged and neglected to tell him that she may have wandered half the castle before she realized the obvious place he would be. “You mentioned you were a blacksmith. Figured this might be where you would go if you needed time to return to something familiar.”

 

“A very empathetic thought process,” Percy observed. “But yes. I wanted to go somewhere that was like…”

 

“Home?” Vex guessed. Percy paused. Looked down at her with an expression that reminded her of the boy who had just lost everything. Fifteen years later, Percy was only just learning how to put roots down. With a stir of guilt, she recalled that it was she who had taken what sense of self and security he had made for himself since that night. But there was nothing she could do for that. Now he knew who he was, no going back, and she was going to take him to Emon and get her damn gold. No time for sentimentality. 

 

She cast about for another topic and noticed that he looked exhausted; there were dark circles beneath his eyes. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

 

Percy shook his head. “I was too shaky. I needed something to do. So I came down here.” His eyes lit up with almost childish excitement. “Here - come look at this.”

 

Amused, Vex followed him to the table. A strange metal instrument lay there, six slim cylinders held together by metal bands, a rotational compartment at one end above a darkwood handle. Percy talked quickly, explaining how he saw his father’s ( _My father, Vex’ahlia, I can’t describe how weird that is to say,_ he told her, not seeing the bittersweet turn of her smile) old designs and built it with a few modifications. 

 

“It’s amazing, really, let me show you -” Percy held the device in his hand and aimed it at a target Vex had not noticed on a wall nearly fifty feet from them. It was made of wood, the paint faded. Strange, small holes pockmarked it surface. A small smiled crossed Vex’s face. What did he plan to do, _hit_ that target? With what? She knew she could have done it, had she her bow, but that small metal instrument wasn’t going to do - 

 

He pulled a small trigger, letting out a shockingly loud _bang!_ Vex screamed indelicately, covering her ears, and across the room, a new hole appeared in the target, splinters flying. 

 

“What-?” She said breathlessly, her heart raging. “What was that?”

 

Percy grinned. “So sorry to startle you. I call it the Pepperbox. Not so helpless now, am I?”

 

Vex hit him. Percy conceded that as fair.


End file.
